


A Swarm of Love

by LonghornLetters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, He takes care of his detective, John is a good man, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock's black moods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4104583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonghornLetters/pseuds/LonghornLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to take care of Sherlock in his black moods.  Sometimes he needs a bit of help...more like a swarm of help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Swarm of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post this evening about Sherlock owning a bunch of stuffed bees and John putting them on him while he's in a strop, and this is the result.
> 
> Bonus points if you can spot the Red Dwarf reference.

John started buying Sherlock the plush bees after he saw him reading a book on apiology in the 21st century.  It was just the one at first.  A little something to show he cared about Sherlock’s interests.  When he’d given it to Sherlock, he’d just rolled his eyes and muttered something about being too old for soft toys, but John had definitely noticed that the bee had pride of place on Sherlock’s dresser when they’d gone to bed that night.  After that, new bees would pop up around the flat from time to time.  For anniversaries, birthdays, closed cases, and one year, rather memorably, for the fifteenth Wednesday after Pentecost.

The bees stayed largely untouched, reigning silently from their spots on the dresser, nightstand, bookcase, even one that peeped slyly out from behind the coffee maker, but sometimes, very rarely, they served a different purpose.

Between cases, Sherlock could be a nightmare.  More often than not, he would occupy himself with experimenting, reading, composing, or just generally puttering about the flat, but there were times when his black moods would reach up and drag him down.  John could usually see them coming.  Sherlock would lose patience with his normal pursuits, he would sink into a clinging lethargy, taking up residence on the sofa in his pyjamas and staring at nothing, refusing to talk; or eat; or even come to bed with John.

Many times John could stop it before things got truly out of hand.  He would coax and kiss and cuddle, drawing Sherlock out with the gentle affection that he claimed to be above but that secretly made him glow.  This time however, John had been too distracted with work, too sleep deprived from their last case, and consequently too short tempered.  He hadn’t noticed Sherlock sinking until he was fully underwater and the normal methods would only push him deeper.  

John gave Sherlock a wide berth, hoping he’d pull himself up, but after three days of his detective slumped across the sofa barely drinking enough to stave off dehydration, John decided to take matters into his own hands.  

When he got home from work that evening, he deliberately detoured through the sitting room and perched himself on the edge of the sofa.  “Hey, gorgeous,” John greeted, “How’re you feeling?”  Sherlock barely registered his presence.  John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s fringe, pushing the lank, unwashed curls off his forehead, “I had Mrs. H get us some sole for dinner; I can make it that French way you like.”

“A la meuniere,” Sherlock murmured.

“That,” John conceded, “We’ve got the things in for spinach salads too.”

Sherlock blinked up at him, “I suppose.”

John leaned down and planted a soft kiss on his cheek, “Great.”  He rose and went into the kitchen to get started before Sherlock could change his mind.  

In the kitchen, the bee poking out from behind the coffee maker made him smile.  Sherlock had bought that one and stationed it on top of the coffee maker for John’s birthday earlier that year.  He hadn’t had the heart to displace it from its original home, but it had taken up residence behind the appliance for convenience’s sake.  He set to work on dinner, and twenty minutes later was making his way back into the sitting room plate and glass in hand.  

Sherlock hadn’t moved, the occasional blink and slow rise and fall of his chest the only evidence he was alive.  “Sherlock?” John asked, “Do you want some dinner?”  

Sherlock shook his head, “Not hungry,” he murmured, voice raspy from disuse.

“Well, at least drink something,” John insisted, plunking the glass of water down directly in Sherlock’s line of sight.

Sherlock dragged himself up to sitting, but he made no move to pick up the glass in front of him.  John went back into the kitchen to fetch his own beverage, knowing that sometimes Sherlock was better about getting going when he didn’t feel like John was scrutinizing him.  In the sitting room, Sherlock had picked up his water, but it didn’t look like he’d drunk any of it yet.

“Drink that,” John insisted, pointing at the water with his fork.  He started eating, and his occasional glance at Sherlock revealed the water disappearing in tiny sips.  By the time he’d eaten the fish, rice, and salad he’d made for dinner, Sherlock had managed to down the water John had given him.  The second he’d finished, he’d set the glass back on the coffee table and resumed his former position lying on his side staring at nothing.  John stood with a groan, collected their dishes and made his way back into the kitchen where the coffee bee still regarded him thoughtfully.

John sighed.  He hated how these moods cut Sherlock adrift and how helpless they made him feel.  They were usually so happy working, living, and loving together, that John supposed it made a rather twisted sort of sense that when one of them was unhappy it cut that much more deeply.  It was, he supposed, the nature of the universe.  The sweetness of their life together wouldn’t exist without the bitter, and the bitter, he acknowledged, was far, far outweighed by the sweet.  Knowing something intellectually, however, was completely different from understanding it emotionally.

Back in the living room, John prodded Sherlock’s phone to life.  No messages and the clock on the lock screen told him it was still too early to call it a night.  He scooped up the remote in his free hand and after he’d prodded Sherlock into sitting up long enough so he could claim the corner of the sofa, let Sherlock rest his head in his lap while John clicked idly through the channels.  He finally settled on a repeat of last week’s Ninja Warrior for its relative mindlessness.  In his lap, Sherlock shifted restlessly, rolling his head against John’s thigh before finally settling heavily into a relatively comfortable position.  

“You know,” John commented, idly stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, “I think this bee is my favourite.”  He waggled the coffee pot bee that he’d been holding since he’d returned from clearing up after dinner.  Sherlock glanced up at it and grunted to show he’d heard.  John set it gently on Sherlock’s chest facing him.  Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

At the next commercial, John stretched over and snagged another bee from off of the desk.  This one had been one of those “just because” bees.  John didn’t really even remember when or why he’d ordered it, but it had never migrated far from where Sherlock had unboxed it in the first place.

“This one makes sure I update the blog, you know,” John murmured, setting it next to the first bee on Sherlock’s chest.  “Doesn’t like to be left out of the loop, this one.”

“It clearly doesn’t care about whether or not you stick to the facts,” Sherlock countered dully.  

“Maybe not, but it’s very supportive,” John replied, refusing to be dissuaded.  

A few ad breaks later, and John tapped Sherlock on the forehead, “Let me up a minute, love, I need the loo.”  Sherlock raised his head, but, John noticed, not enough to dislodge his two companions.  

He smiled to himself as he made his way down the hall.  After he’d fulfilled his original mission, he made a quick detour into their room.  Sherlock kept his most prized bees in their bedroom, away from the prying eyes of clients, the NSY, and even Mycroft.  They represented everything from birthdays and major anniversaries to the one he’d bought for John after a rather harrowing case involving illegal organ trafficking.  John had written the significance for each one on the tag in his small, blocky handwriting, afraid he’d forget what they represented.  He scooped them all up and made his way back down the hall to rejoin Sherlock in the sitting room.

“What on earth are you doing?” Sherlock asked as John deposited his burden and sat down.

“Nothing.” John answered coolly.  Sherlock rolled his eyes and laid back down, bees still in place on his chest.

As the new episode of Ninja Warrior started, John decided to pace himself by contestant.  Each time a new player attempted to tackle the obstacle course, another bee appeared on Sherlock’s chest.  By the time the show was half over, a half dozen plush bees were rising and falling in time with Sherlock’s breathing.  

Every time John added a bee, Sherlock would glance up, his eyes meeting John’s with a little more light behind them each time, his face a little more open.  On the eleventh bee, the light in his eyes translated itself into a small, shy smile.

“Hey, there,” John whispered, and leaned down to kiss Sherlock’s lips softly, “I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock rolled and buried his face in the soft cashmere of John’s jumper, dislodging all of his fuzzy companions.  He murmured something into John’s stomach, but John didn’t catch it.

“What was that, love?” John asked.

Sherlock tilted his head back to meet John’s eyes, “Thank you, John.”

“Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> 100% this is not meant to be an actual fix for mental/emotional health struggles. It was something I thought would be sweet and fun.


End file.
